


The Business Card Part One

by missmollyetc



Series: Cardverse [1]
Category: Numb3rs
Genre: M/M, Minor Violence, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-13
Updated: 2010-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 05:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One kick to get in the door, two seconds to step inside, three bullets to the chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Business Card Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Slight spoilers for "Prime Suspect." Anyone else notice Don took the shot?

One.

 

It really wasn't as big a deal as the Bureau wanted to make it. Even if you did your job well, the chances were pretty good that _someone_ was going to get hurt. Mandatory therapy wouldn't erase that fact, and neither would this 'Doctor Weber' he'd been assigned to visit.

Don grimaced, choking back the knot in his gut with another swallow of alcohol. With his other hand, he pushed the doctor's business card parallel to the bottle of good whiskey he kept hidden behind the cooking oil no one used. He clunked his glass beside it, and stared at his uneaten sandwich, avoiding his own reflection in the dinner table.

He shouldn't have come home. He wasn't in any state to be around people. He'd even bypassed McGinty's with David and Terry after work, but Don's hands had steered the car directly to his stash at home, rather than the apartment.

Something clattered in the kitchen, and Don's hand went to his empty holster. Charlie came through the kitchen door into the dining area, and smiled. "Hey, what are you doing in my house?" he asked.

"What?"

Don covered the business card with his palm. Charlie stepped forward and around the table. His long-fingered hand wrapped around the seat next to Don. He sat down, slinging an arm over the backrest, careless of his limbs in a way he never was at the office. Don moved his foot away from Charlie's toes, but the poking followed him. He frowned, and it stopped.

Charlie leaned over and picked up the closest half of Don's sandwich.

"Sure, go ahead," Don grumbled.

Charlie shook his head, grinning around a mouthful of ham. There was a smudge of black grease across his forehead. Don tucked his thumb into his palm. Charlie wasn't a kid anymore. He didn't need help cleaning up.

"Thanks," Charlie said. "You know swinging a hammer isn't as easy as it looks? There's all these variables to compute before you even start the upswing. It's--it's really quite fascinating. First of all, you have to calculate the amount of pressure needed to--"

"Yeah, okay." Don raised one hand. His lips threatened to curl into a smile, but then the edges of the business card bit into his other palm. "Since when are you into carpentry?" he asked.

Charlie flexed his fingers, and added a self-satisfied tilt to his head nod. He tucked a loose curl behind his ear. "Since...well, I'll tell you later. How come you aren't in that fancy apartment I've heard so much about?"

He'd killed somebody again, so he'd thought it was time to celebrate. What was this, his fourth? He should expect that set of steak knives in the mail any day now.

"...I got hungry," he said.

"I can see that," Charlie said, setting down the crust of Don's sandwich. "Can I have your pickle?"

"Sure," Don said. He picked up his glass, letting the alcohol scour his mouth before swallowing. The burn made him shiver. "Hey!"

Don grabbed Charlie's wrist. The half-full glass clattered to the floor, whiskey splashing cold on his ankle. Charlie very slowly unwrapped his fingers from the neck of Don's whiskey bottle. His wrist bones realigned underneath Don's grip. His skin felt warm.

"Don?" Charlie asked.

His eyes widened with every breath. Don tightened his hold, swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth. His fingers twitched. Slowly, Don brought their joined hands to the table. He licked his lips, starting and stopping before he'd even conjured the words needed to tell Charlie _why_ he didn't need the bottle in front of him, and Don did. How did you tell your little brother you were a killer?

Charlie frowned.

"Look, Don, you don't want me to have a drink, I...I won't have a drink, but c'mon, say something here...you're starting to freak me out." Charlie's smile died stillborn, and Don looked away. "Don?"

Don grit his teeth and forced his hand to open, letting go of Charlie's wrist. His fingers trailed across the back of Charlie's hand and Charlie took a sharp breath.

"Don, what's going on?" That new note, that adult note Don wasn't used to hearing yet, crept into Charlie's voice.

Don shook his head. He'd left the business card exposed. A distraction was in order. "Just having dinner," he said.

Charlie looked down at the crust he'd lain on the table, and nudged a few crumbs with the edge of his fingernail. He exhaled slowly, and that bubble--that fucking wall between Charlie and the real world congealed around him.

Don felt the air siphon from his lungs. He sat back in his chair, arm on the table, and watched Charlie leave the room without even moving a muscle. Okay, this was good. Charlie was thinking about fractions, or fractals, or something like that. Don could get up, collect the card, and be out of the house before Charlie noticed the difference.

He took a deep breath, bracing his hands on the dinner table. His feet felt heavy as lead. Charlie's hand slid across the table. His elegant fingers pricked on the edges of the business card, and Charlie came back. Don froze, caught mid-rise.

"What's the business card for?" Charlie asked.

Don coughed, shrugging. Charlie tugged on his shirt cuff, and he collapsed back into the chair. He uncapped the whiskey bottle, and wrapped his lips around the mouth, taking a healthy swallow. He hissed the scorch away, and set the bottle down.

"What's it for, Don?"

"Another FBI consultant," he said.

Charlie blinked. He swallowed, and his hands rubbed against each other. "Another mathematician? Why? I thought--"

"No, it's okay, we're...we're happy with your work," Don said. He reached out and put his hand above Charlie's upper arm. "It's a--_she's_ a psychiatrist. She does work for us occasionally."

"A psychiatrist? For--for a case?" Charlie grinned, and shifted under Don's hand.

Don tried to move his hand away, and for some reason, it descended and latched on instead.

"No, it's, uh,"--he laughed, and Charlie frowned--"it's for me. Actually. Standard procedure."

"Standard procedure for what?" Charlie shifted closer, his elbow on the table, leaning into Don's space. One hand supported his head.

"For, uh, for cases where an agent has used lethal force," Don said. He pressed his lips together, watching Charlie turn white.

Charlie's lips pressed together. His head tilt, curls shivering. His hands knit together, fingers twisting into reddening patterns. Don let go of Charlie's arm, and covered his fingers. He was going to hurt himself if he kept that up.

He waited. Charlie's mouth opened, and closed. He blinked rapidly, calculations spinning behind his eyes. Don began to speak, low and fast, trying to keep Charlie in the here and now, rather than the far and away.

"This is what I do. This is what happens when…when an agent is involved in a shooting where the suspect has been killed, said agent will undergo a term of psychiatric eval--"

"Don!"

Charlie's hand was shaking. Charlie was shaking? No, that was Don. He was shaking and that made Charlie shake, which wasn't in the plan and shouldn't have happened at all. He clenched his hand on Charlie's fingers, wincing as Charlie did, and watched his knuckles whiten until his body was once more quiet and under control.

"Was it Atwood?" Charlie asked. "Did he, did he know the answer was a fake?"

His voice was somber, eyes wide and dark. He looked all of six years old, and Don was struck with the irrational urge to go up to his childhood room and pull the covers over his head. But Charlie wasn't six, and Don was too old to hide.

Charlie breathed out, and Don inhaled reflexively. A curl popped from behind Charlie's ear.

"Someone else," Don said. "Guy called Kirkpatrick. He was holding a gun when we came into the building. We think he and Ballard planned to kill their accomplices and...I mean, it was him or me, so I..."

He closed his eyes, and saw the kill shots in Technicolor flashes. Charlie's fingers wriggled free of Don's grasp. He leaned back, wrapping his arms around his chest. He swallowed heavily, and lifted his chin. Don choked back a very inappropriate laugh. Probably off to his chalkboards again.

Charlie's hand palmed the base of his neck and squeezed. Dry fingers fumbled up his neck to grip the back of Don's head. He blinked his eyes open, surprised all over again at how large Charlie had grown.

"I…Don, I…_Thank you_."

Charlie's other arm shifted to the table for balance as he rose from his chair. Don tried to pull away, and Charlie fought him, tightening his grip. Breath puffed across Don's face, and then lips, slightly chapped, were covering his own. The lips (_Charlie's_ lips!) pressed firmly against his mouth.

It was…it was a kiss, dry and chaste, and then Charlie's head dipped to the side, and Don's mouth followed, turning with his bro…

His _little brother_.

Don's hand came up, wavering above Charlie's shoulder. He froze, eyes widening as Charlie pulled back. Charlie hovered uncertainly before him. Then leaning forward for, he pressed their lips together again, and stepped back. His ankle whacked the chair out of his path.

He nodded, more to himself than to Don, hand raised to his mouth. He looked up. The tip of his tongue flickered over his lips, and he walked away.


End file.
